


No Runaway (Cos I Won't Run)

by pettiot



Series: Professionals Timeline [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Alley Sex, M/M, Pre-Series, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:53:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22302904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Young William jumps ship in Dakar.  He wants many things, the thrill most of all.
Relationships: Bodie/Original Male Character
Series: Professionals Timeline [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600894





	No Runaway (Cos I Won't Run)

When they docked in Dakar, William shaved carefully, sloughed the calluses off his hands, and changed into clothes that made him look less like a sailor. He fastened the wristwatch unworn through his time aboard, not wanting to risk damage. Then he collected his pay in local currency, hid it in various portions about his person, and went to the yard's office to get his passbook stamped.

The others had already left. Curious, he lingered in the mate's smoky presence to decipher the scratched commentary on his performance. His lips sounded out the words slowly, annoyed as always that the letters would defeat him.

'Been pulling your own, is all it says.'

'Got that right. Not paid enough to pull anyone else's.'

The mate snorted. 'Be shipping out Wednesday week, you come back before noon Tuesday if you want your berth. Unless you want me to take your note now?'

William shrugged, non-committal. 'Been a long year with the ship.'

The mate gave a grunt, a puff of pipe-smoke, and a dismissive wave at another misguided youngster turning down a good job. William marvelled. Shittest of the shitkicker jobs he took, and did they honestly expect his loyalty?

He spent his day walking the city, acclimatising. Not to the humidity, he was accustomed to sweat and labour in less of a breeze than this. It was the people. Dakar held many makes and models of humanity, the streets closer to chaos than he'd experienced, sellers leaping out as light and lighter faces dodged the brandished souvenirs. Even the buildings were strange, use and form overlapping; the occasional cluster of recognisable art deco apartment blocks threw him as much as showpiece clean-lined modernity next to a shambles.

The women were wonderfully interesting, wearing beautiful cotton ensembles suggesting to an easily aroused William their ease of removal.

He thought he would never be happier than this.

In a pavement cafe with several other European faces, William asked for tea, which came in a tall glass, had no milk, with froth on top. He drank anyway, and licked the startling sweetness from his lips.

A young man with thick eyebrows slung on to the bench beside him. His legs sprawled wide, thigh pressing at William's own.

'Afternoon,' William greeted his glass, gravely.

'Hello. You like to come see something with me, eh?'

'Just got off the boat this morning, mate, I hadn't planned on going anywhere with anyone.'

The young man jigged his leg. 'Are you a sailor, then, English?'

'Yeah.'

A brilliant smile showed they were on familiar ground. The leg pressure returned to a constant, this time with a wandering hand. 'A very pretty sailor.'

William frowned at his excuse for tea. Maybe he should have let Able Seaman Joseph Miller break his face. 'Whatever you like.'

'I like you. Maybe you don't want to come so far as Belgium with me, sailor, but there is much to see here. You would like to see my—?' The thick eyebrows went up and down, while the smile broadened. Hands suggested his lap, with an encouraging nod.

Even in the British ports, this happened too many times for William to be anything but exasperated.

'Dunno. Is it worth seeing?'

'Worth a lot.'

'No, probably cost a lot, but it is worth a lot? Is it something special?'

Wryness, beneath the façade, 'I can give you a special.'

'Bugger off you will. Do I look daft?'

'Yes, that. You look wonderful.'

'Don't think I want anything, if that's the best line you can offer.'

A friendly finger tapped his wristbone, next to the watch. 'But I think, you maybe do.'

The suggestive wriggle of the eyebrows projected such hyperbole, William's irritation disappeared. He grinned, surprised when the bronzed young man returned the expression with genuine amusement. Saddening when that faded back into a salesman smile.

'All right, I do want something. It'll shock you.'

'What's your name?'

'William.'

'You call me "Arri".'

They shook hands with an emphatic enthusiasm, Arri (Harry?) taking the contact as an excuse to move closer. William refused to lean away, tolerating the radiant, sweat-smelling heat.

'Wouldn't mind a bit of a guide around the city. You seriously want to show me about, or you just after a quick toss?'

'This is your first time in Senegal.'

'How can you tell?'

'There is not so much to see, but…' Arri worked his eyebrows again, William resisting the urge to mimic. 'Not such innocent eyes, but you have innocent skin.'

A rough thumb eased the sun-tender skin by William's eye, and wandered. The touch paused at the corner of his mouth. Unconsciously, he licked at still-sweet lips.

Arri moved away first.

'I show you the town,' Arri clapped his hands together. 'The Plateau, this is the European district— No? The quartiers populaires will be more interesting to you then. Anything you like, you can ask. I will do a good price for you, for today and tomorrow I will show you everything. Are you tired? Hungry? Thirsty? I will take you to good places, both food and beds. This is ok?'

If William paid him now, "Arri" wouldn't be around tomorrow, he knew well enough. Regardless, an odd generous emotion thrummed, threat, fear and the nameless something else, bright as blood.

'Yeah, ok.'

Arri named a price. William affected shock, bemusement, desperation, and spun a story outlining the dire straits through which he had come, a miserable orphaned childhood, a mugging in Portsmouth. Arri offered the same value: bastard children, a crippled sister, responsibilities to dying parents. William's good humour peaked when he lowered Arri's price further with the promise of pseudo-friendship.

'Can't drink on my own now, can I? Poor form. You'll eat with me, drink with me, my shout—'

The pair shook hands again, with enthusiasm. William counted over coin from an easily accessible, small stash inside his shirt, while Arri watched with appraising eyes.

As they stood, Arri checked beneath the table. 'I think maybe someone has taken your things.'

William grinned. Poor Arri would find it hard to rob someone with nothing. 'Nope.'

'But, boss—'

'William. Don't worry about it. I don't have a bag.'

If Arri's roundabout route intended to disorient, William found instead found the meandering exciting, interspersed with his guide's explanations of local happenings. Relevant questions led Arri to outline a map of Dakar, pictured and memorized for future use. William's internal compass had always been reliable; he had no fear of getting lost.

They took an interesting detour through the fish markets, examined the harbour again, and edged along the diplomatic quarter of the city. Arri's commentary was bright and entertaining, enough they hardly realised the hour until it was nearly dark.

Uncertain whether William intended to take up his first offer, Arri was trying to tire his young mark past caring for security. He would then deposit him at an accommodation of his choosing, where the staff were less than particular. Late at night, Arri and his friend would rob the mark of everything of worth. He needed new passports to leave, with a clean record. One particular official would grant his desire for little more than cash. Arri avoided opinion on the process, the abuse of bureaucracy familiar enough, yet he disliked the tourists he robbed: seeing himself in their naivety in this foreign land, a few wrong turns ago. The affected tourist returned to circulation safely within a day, spiritually richer by one life experience. Arri had no such escape.

William noticed the dislike, and Arri's habit of looking out of the corners of his eyes, sly and bothersome. But there also were the other looks Arri gave him, not sly at all, affability occasionally deeper than surface, meaningful. As if conflicted.

Awash with energy, anticipation, ready for anything, William felt good. His exhilaration was larger than he.

Under such goodnatured assault, Arri's pretence of eager servant eroded into something human. It helped, too, that William was irrepressible when excited, talking fast, without shame or self-consciousness for his naivety, his brave purpose, as though the pair were true friends. Every second step, their shoulders brushed. Arri laughed helplessly at William's observations; in Dakar, they were both foreigners.

Rueful, Arri thought at least William would recover from his mugging with undeniable good humour.

'We should end this day on the shore. This is a scene to behold, watching the fishers return to the long beaches.'

'They catch swordfish out here, don't they?'

'There are many other fish in the sea, William.'

Who laughed in unnecessary excess, boyishly delightful. 'Is that so? Never would've guessed.'

'This is indeed so. We can walk across the sand, where the fishers will have their stands, with seafood cooking fresh.'

'Then we can find a bed, yeah?'

More charming for that he leaped in without affectation, William lowered his lashes, and looked up at Arri through an abundance that shaded blue eyes to purple.

Arri gazed at the sight, bemused.

'Tomorrow,' he rallied, valiant, 'what would you like to do tomorrow? The Ile de Gorée is close, in a chaloupe only twenty minutes to cross. You can walk around the historical buildings, they are very pretty. The island is much a part of your English past, did you know?'

'I'm not interested in old things,' William said, simply. 'Let's go get a car — or buy one, there's a couple of wrecks still running about. Shouldn't be hard, right? Then I want to go deeper.'

Arri hummed, contemplative. 'To Lac Retba?'

'That's the red lake? Yeah, why not. But deeper. Inland, through Senegal and further.'

Wistfulness bled into an otherwise superficial statement of intent, surprising Arri.

'To the desert?'

'Desert, jungle, river, everything.' William knew the names, his brief words sketching a route, he would take through this continent and to the other side.

Arri lived with his horizons necessarily narrowed: an arrow, he targeted home. He forgot dreams like these, or despised them, a necessary defense. Yet at the demonstration, Arri imagined a William younger than this, pouring over maps to memorise territories and ambitions. He suffered an odd pang.

'I think those places you dream of are older than the Ile de Gorée.'

'I haven't seen them yet, or anything like them. Virgin territory, yeah? They'll be young for me.'

'You are truly a sailor? I think this is a lie. Your family must be rich if you intend to conquer all Africa without fear.'

'I'm an orphan, remember?' William's grin came restrained with false solemnity. 'Have to pay my way across. There be boats on them rivers, maybe I'll work a barge. Stop off in some cities, work for a while. Where there's men, there's money. Be sound as a song, mate.'

Arri laughed, in disbelief and envy.

The sun barely a sliver, they were walking along the beach, which crawled with children and multi-coloured beached boats, the smell of fish frying so fresh in the air. William's shoulder brushed Arri's as he considered the scene with evident pleasure, his knuckles skimming Arri's hand.

Arri decided then he would not take William's freedom.

Rob him, yes: there was Arri's own survival to consider, and perhaps the experience would teach some wariness to the mad English child who intended to invade the continent on his own, with nothing more than stories as fuel. But no spite-fed beating, no bag over his head, no shaming, binding, terror of the unknown.

Sitting in the sand, their knees up and a parcel of fish between them, they ate without cutlery, picking scorched, white flesh from the bone. With care to be obvious in his designs, Arri wiped his mostly licked clean fingers on William's clothed thigh.

William watched the motion, the eyebrow with the scar further crooked. Arri let his hand wander to the inseam. Correspondingly, William pushed his bare heels deeper into sand, his knees wide.

Arri suffered again the conflicted emotion.

'What's in Belgium?'

Thin as the Englishman's voice was, Arri had been expecting another question, or a demand.

'You said it earlier, like it was a joke. Might not want to come as far as Belgium with you. But why Belgium?'

Arri hesitated. 'No, not a joke. Senegal is not the place for me, nor in any further. There is war spreading, the way the people who are forced here by the war, they will say, the corruption is like a devil possessing the nation and not the people. So I will go, and it is easier to go to Belgium from here than anywhere else.'

'But once you're there?'

'In Europe, I can do as you are doing here, and work my way back to my home. I miss it.'

'Mad. Being in a place like this, and wanting to go home.'

They laughed together, incredulous at the other's idiocy.

The salt air tasted like anticipation: by now William was sure he wanted to sleep with Arri. The terror was the same as the first night he took his dad's mate's bike out alone, pushing himself faster, tighter round the curves; his first night after he walked away from the last place called home. He sampled his own disbelief with delight. Oh, he would dare.

The vague edge of threat, the appraising way Arri's eyes skated along his body as though assessing worth of flesh as well as pocket, was exciting.

'Let's go for a drink, Arri. A bar? That place you were talking about in the European quarter, somewhere with good music—'

'We would not be allowed in the club, William. They have a strict dress code, a suit and tie, or the full traditional robes. You must be somebody first.' Arri considered. 'There is a place near here.'

A nightclub, lively, slightly seedy, where coloured lights lit the garden, a giant plastic palm tree the hub in a round bar. William studied it, critical. The tackiness would only be obvious in daylight.

Arri put away his cocktails with speed, talking more than he intended; often he stopped midsentence or changed tack, rueful. William laughed where suitable, added jokes where not, and reveled in the game. Pose, counterpose, touch his hair, cock his hip, hold the other's gaze with pride and promise. Strange to be playing the old games in a new place, without the concern that word would get back to his father.

William trusted in the benevolence of distance.

'I want to buy you something. A present. Oh, come on, you're all right, you know? Had fun this afternoon, tonight. Can get it tomorrow, you can pick out whatever you want.'

Too drunk to mask his expression, Arri suddenly looked sad. Standing in such a way to make the space between them an extension of touch, William had forgotten tomorrow didn't exist.

He hurried his drink.

Arri had a destination in mind, walking fast, if not fast enough. William had no intention of staying in a bed where the thief knew he slept. He reached out, and found Arri as high as he.

In an alley, they came together abruptly, Arri's hands skating along William's spine, while he struggled to pull Arri's tunic over his head to find bronzed skin. Two kitchens disgorged into the same space, a slurry of water and scraps running against their heels. His chin tucked into Arri's shoulder, William breathed woodsmoke, the heaviness of the other's sweat, the rubbish stink. Filth and mould mottled the walls. More than he imagined the reality would, being had in the grime was arousing him fiercely.

Arri's hands under his shirt were not enough. William wanted nails, pressure, bruising, force. He was insensitive; it would take more than this to make him feel.

William pulled away with violence, but Arri let him go.

The disappointment was overwhelming.

'After all I done for you don't you dare make me ask—!'

Held by the collar, his tunic tangled around arms and shoulders, Arri was panting. His knee had come up, protecting his own groin.

'Whatever you want.' A tremor of anger, of fear in Arri's voice.

William coughed, ragged. He let the other go. He had moved without thought, again. Arri stepped away, ejecting a foreign word.

'S-sorry. Shit.' William turned away, grappling with violent impulse. Arri could likely subdue him, he was quick, but the formless fantasy about fights, losses, and stronger men was as displaced in this alley as he was.

'You want someone to hurt you? Is that all?'

In answer, he undid his belt and dropped his trousers. Arri spat on his hand.

William tensed every muscle he could.

Arri pushed in hard. The change ached inside, making William's back arch, his balls tighten. There was never anything like having something up his arse, the anticipation of knowing there could be more. For a wild moment denial fought want, the years of slurs, curses, observations; he was macho, or trying too hard to be, mad, would never back down, not even from this. But he wanted it, why should he back down? This time there would be more than fingers. He reached for Arri.

Who grabbed his hair, rough, using the hold to drag his head towards the ground. 'Hands on your ankles.'

He obeyed.

The rush of blood dizzied and deafened. In retaliation for the fear, Arri was causing him a lot of pain. Pleasure, too, coming with a shocking randomness, lancing into his gut sharp as fishhooks and barbed, wrenching sounds out of him. Arri shoved with rough hands as well as hips, pushing him bent every time he tried to straighten or ease the angle. William staggered away as soon as Ari came, raw, humidity and sweat having chafed everywhere touched. The blood ringing in his ears, giddy. No trickle yet, maybe not for a while; Arri shot off deep, he felt it, and the echo of absence.

The thought of how deep was almost enough to make him come.

'No, you leave that.' Arri batted William's hands away from his cock. Fingers playing along captive wrists, Arri knelt in the alley filth. Then he paused, confronted by it.

'You still want to?' William's voice was high.

The look Arri gave was reproachful. 'This is your something special. I could not compare.'

He closed his eyes as Arri sucked him, sloppy, as far as he could. Which was not very, considering the physical constraint, but as well as William had ever received. He fought away the orgasm twice, wanting to hear again the sound Arri made each time, tasting the almost-taste, but the third time venturing close toppled him, when Arri's fingers dug into William's arse as if spreading him for more.

Eyes still tight, he listened to fabric, rustling, a belt and clinking buckle, the footsteps recede.

Then he returned to visibility, having come to rest on his knees. The ground glistened. The rubbish smell made him queasy, when it had been weird and heady before. Arri had, at least, pulled up his trousers before he left. William checked his various stashes, found which ones Arri raided, and contented himself with the thought that he was daring, clever, mad, and not destitute.

Tomorrow, he would find the whole setup amusing again, the alley slick with romanticism, maybe. Tonight he was hollowed.

He bought a bed for the night. Undressing, he realised Arri had also stolen his wristwatch, and was unaccountably sad.

William spent three days progressing his plans, first finding an ancient car easily removed from the owner's shed, then getting information on conditions further inland from English-speaking locals. The fishermen were prone to scorn continental life, which William expected; barkeepers and bouncers more inclined to reasonable debate. He picked up a stockpile of politenesses in three languages. He went hungry, preferring to secure his bed than food. Petrol would be difficult to get consistently once inland, and his francs flew away daily; he needed to find work before he left, but his continued disassociation kept him from any sense of urgency. Instead, he hoarded and studied maps. He had always loved cartography: a facet of reality, an interpretation, but understood easier than art. Using a commonality of graphic language, instead of the elite distancing which was all art and its symbolism seemed good for to William, another division between the masses. If he had ever had a bedroom, he would have hung the walls with the known world.

Buying water on the fourth night, he saw Arri two steps behind another man, ducking into a lane beside a bar boarded closed at the front.

William wondered if this was why he had waited before leaving.

Idly, he wandered around the building, to the side lane. Cleaner than typical, small, high windows and drainpipes were all that marred the walls, rubbish neatly stacked in boxes. A buzzing light marked the bar's true entrance, and cast the lane's ends in shadow.

Two men flanked the door, talking, one big and one lean. William settled himself to wait.

He had done his time waiting for his father inside and out of clubs, halls, bars; the two were bouncers, holding themselves with a readiness William recognised from England. In his year aboard the ship, William took care to foster a similar air of nihilistic good humour, a readiness to attempt any feat of daring. While the attitude preserved him from casual harassment, William learned it as good as invitation to those inclined to violence.

Eventually, the pair took exception to his loitering.

'I'm waiting for a friend,' he replied.

'Can you wait somewhere else?'

The bouncer's accent was thick, French. Head and shoulders above William, he appraised the youth in front of him, and spoke with more kindness than sneering dismissal.

'Can't. I don't know where else he's going to be.'

'But you know he's here?'

'Well, yeah, I saw him go in, so here I am.'

'What sort of friend is he? Do you know his name?'

The second bouncer ambled closer. 'This is a rough place, a select place, English. You will not be finding your sort of friends here.'

'Except he's the sort of friend,' William said, 'who owes me money.'

He smiled.

The bouncers exchanged glances; the first grinned and shrugged. 'What harm, our one little Englishman?'

At that, William relaxed. Boredom could be worse than the drunks, for a bouncer; these two were bored enough to let him stay.

'There will be no trouble here,' the second said, turning back to the door. 'You understand? You take your friend somewhere else when he comes.'

'Ok.'

William followed them to their patch of light, and took up position with them, amusing the first bouncer to laughing. He offered William a cigarette, which, after a moment's contemplation, was taken with a thank you and smoked.

Something pungent and unfamiliar curled through the air.

'So, English. How did you come to lose your money to a friend in Dakar?'

'By ship.'

The bouncer laughed again, easily. Even his friend smirked.

'I am Little Willie,' said the first bouncer.

'That's never your real name.'

Little Willie was delighted. 'As you ask, my name is Jawara. But the owner of this club, you know, he is English like you. A hard man, but rich. And stupid sometimes, he does not remember names. So Little Willie is what he calls me.'

William studied the bouncer's height and breadth, his eyebrow quirking. 'Congratulations?'

'I am Big Willie,' the second announced. 'This is what they call a sense of humour in your country, I understand.'

'Oh yeah, because he's the big one, right? Didn't they ever tell your boss size shouldn't count?'

'Should not count what?'

'Oh, inches, probably.' William shook his head. 'What sort of bar is this, rough as guts?'

'Soldiers drink here.'

'Mercenaries,' Big Willie corrected. 'Your friend is not a mercenary, English, I think.'

'I don't know. What's a mercenary do?'

Little Willie shrugged. 'Kills in foreign lands.'

'Nah, my friend doesn't do that. He's a tour guide.'

The bouncers nearly collapsed laughing.

'And you, English?'

'Mattress salesman.'

Little Willie wiped his eyes. 'Is that so? Then where is your bed? Sell it to me.'

William sucked deeply on his cigarette, enjoying the headspin. 'I'm more into the product development than the actual sales, like, road testing. Gathering field research for the company.'

'This testing of mattresses must be a hard job. How do they say, trying?'

'Everything's trying, yeah, trying everything. But it's not so bad. Perks, you know?'

'Yet so bad you must ask your friend for money?'

'No,' William said, 'he owes me money. There's a difference.'

'Explain to me this difference.'

Wreathed in smoke and muffled afro-cuban music, they passed a pleasant half hour in conversation. Little Willie proved a sometime paratrooper, who came to Dakar intending to join the elite presidential guard and having fallen, again ironically, short of requirement. Big Willie was a former gendarme, from the same southern region of Senegal as Jawara. Unwilling to talk about the ship, or England before that, William expanded on his history as a mattress salesman, developing a door-to-door sales strategy as he went along.

'Not like you can haul a mattress down the street, right? So you've got to convince them their bed's the one with the problem, not so much that yours is the better one. Now, most days, the woman of the house is at home alone, so in you go and get convincing— Got to the point where I'd take the turn to their street, and they'd come running to the door, secretaries used to take their lunchbreaks at home, just to watch me.'

Big and Little Willie were both amused and mesmerised. 'To watch you do what, English?'

'Jump on the bed. Why, what'd you think I meant? How else would you test a bed? Then when their springs are gone—'

Arri slunk out, followed by a man with dark hair and an eyepatch.

Recognition flowed seamlessly into a sprint.

William brought him down in three paces.

Vaguely, from a greater distance than the laneway's extent, he heard the bouncers shouting. The eye-patch man was laughing, and made no attempt to interfere. It was good. At Arri's first glance, William's irritation had ignited; a rueful glance, as though William was cause only for amusement, the escape tried solely to satisfy the rules of farce.

Straddling the struggling Arri, William did not hold back. Charmed by his groundwork, the bouncers cheered their entertainer, pleased to withhold interference when the brawl showed no sign of spreading inside. Eye-patch man lit his own cigarette, and walked closer.

Then he called out, 'Take his front teeth out, boy. Five hundred francs to you. Make the cocksucker's next job easier for him.'

His rhythm disrupted by shock, William held back his next blow. Knock a young man's teeth out, take away his youth. His pride. Permanent damage, almost better to kill him.

His knuckles throbbed, Arri's face slick with sweat and blood. William breathed with difficulty.

'One thousand,' Eye-patch called. 'The whore will thank you after.'

They stared at each other, Arri and William.

Then an emotion stirred in Arri's eyes, the fear pushing the anger into the foreground. William recognised: Arri thought he would. Thought he _could_. Therefore, William wondered if that meant he should.

Something changed in him. Panicked beyond restraint, Arri fought as if for his life.

William stopped the blows the hard way, gagging, thrown far enough to let Arri regain his feet. He lunged despite the pain; heavier, if he kept Arri on the ground, the advantage was his. They rolled into boxes packed with rotting rubbish, the bouncers moaning at the shower of refuse in a horrified amusement. Eye-patch applauded, slow and mocking.

Arri kicked him in the groin, then the gut, and kneed him once in the short-ribs. He spat on his fingers, the sound deliberately reminiscent of the prelude to their fucking, and patted the bloodied hock on William's cheek.

'Fool.'

The humiliation burned.

Then Arri shouted at Eye-patch, 'and fuck you too, arsehole!'

Everything seemed so distant and unimportant.

William watched Arri limp towards the street, as if the scenario were a dream. The bouncers' disappointment was vocal, while Eye-patch's slurring contempt suggested William caved to expectations by staying on his knees.

Arri paused, staggering, as he made the alley's mouth. He propped one arm against the wall while he leaned to vomit.

'Ten thousand francs, English,' Eye-patch said, 'if you take out his teeth.'

Light caught on William's watch face, worn on Arri's wrist.

As if worth more to the thief as a memento.

Having lost out of weakness, pitiful. Might as well give it up, turn swish. William's stomach hurt. In his fantasies, he could always win the fights, surrender his choice to give. The end of resistance, a gift. Not taken. Never displayed.

Expressionless, he went for Arri.

He regained himself when the pain in his hands turned from ache to sharpness. Arri's lower face was a mess. Some macabre urge had William hook the mangled jaw open, his heat and rage gone to ice at the sight. Ari was unresponsive.

William thought of Able Seaman Joseph Miller, his body adrift somewhere where maps could do no good, and wondered why it was so easy to kill.

Fingers pained and already swelling, he took his time getting the watch off Arri's wrist. He held it to his ear, forgetting to listen for the tick in his shock, and returned it to his own wrist. He hardly knew why he went back to his audience.

Surprising himself, he yawned in Eye-patch's face.

Eye-patch counted ten hundred-franc notes, fluttering to the refuse on the ground. Instinct told William he would be damned if he bent in front of this man, so he stood. Stared.

The one eye was deep, dark with amusement. 'More fun than I thought I would find in a city. What's your name?'

Behind Eye-patch, Big Willie and Little Willie seemed impressed. But between them, a surplus of Williams.

'Bodie.'

'I'll remember you. I'd buy you a drink but you stink like street filth. Another time. Let's hope you are as entertaining then.'

Eye-patch did not deviate; Big Willie and Little Willie parted to let him return to the bar.

Terror leaked through the tiredness, the emotionless gap. A rush soon, good as a drug.

'Who the hell was he?'

'François Leparge,' said Big Willie.

'Franky,' said Little Willie.

'A mercenary?'

'He's very good with his knives,' Little Willie added.

'But you, English, are very good with your hands. Should we see to your friend?'

'Depends what you mean by see to him.'

They laughed; Bodie hadn't intended a joke. Little Willie put his meaty paw on a slumped shoulder, in companionship. Big Willie gathered the francs, then disappeared to drag Arri out of sight.

Blood dripped into Bodie's eye, blinked out. Little Willie pushed another cigarette on him.

'How did you learn to fight so well? Did the mattresses jump back?'

'Sometimes the husbands come home.'

'This is a wise thing to know, how to commit oneself to finishing a fight, if you insist on wearing out another man's mattress.'

The big man's admiration shouldn't have warmed him so, delirious with the praise. If he was congratulated, of course it was all right.

Bodie spat blood, then scrubbed the trickle from his chin. 'It's expecting them to buy a new one afterwards that really pisses them off. Never get between a man and his money.'

'And what will you do now that you have found your friend, English?'

'Dunno. Can't exactly make a living off asking for coin like that, can I?'

'Why not?' Little Willie pointed out, 'I do.'

Oh, he would dare, wouldn't he? And why the hell not?

'I need work, actually. You know anyone—'

Little Willie mussed his hair, not minding the filth. 'I should think many a door privileged to have you lean against the frame.'


End file.
